


the best you can hope for

by ignipes



Category: Psych, Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-25
Updated: 2009-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby hates California. He always gets shot in California. Coda to "High Noon-ish."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best you can hope for

Busting out of the hospital is easy. Bobby's opinion of the Santa Barbara Police Department sinks even lower when he picks the lock on the handcuffs - one-handed, thank you very much - and waltzes right out of the room while his uniformed guard is in the bathroom taking a piss.

Maybe some of the nurses on the night shift wonder why there's a patient in an ass-baring nightgown and a sling wandering the halls at this hour, but nobody stops him. Bobby knows how it works: never underestimate the ability of the overworked and underpaid to mind their own business.

Turns out it's a little bit harder to hotwire a car one-handed, but he's on the road and heading north before the uniform sounds the alarm.

-

He stops three times before dawn to swap cars and once to find some clothes. He ends up with a puke-green Dodge Dart that roars like an asthmatic lion and carries him toward the border on half-bald tires.

Bobby hates California. He always gets shot in California.

-

Twenty-five hours later Bobby's shoulder hurts like a bitch and he's half-convinced the Dart's radio is haunted by the ghost of Blind Willie Johnson. It's either that or there's a late-night DJ in Rapid City having a spiritual crisis at two in the morning.

Six of one, half dozen of another. Bobby gave up trying to find another station forty minutes ago.

He's always liked driving across South Dakota at night. The empty prairie and endless sky make the world seem like a better place than it is. There's nothing on the road except him and Blind Willie, the rasp of an old guitar and rumble of an old engine, dashed yellow lines on the asphalt and a waxing moon in the sky.

On nights like this it almost feels like the world's worth saving.

-

Home sweet home.

He's not even halfway up the drive before the lights blaze inside his house and the screen door slaps open. Dean's Impala is parked out front; Bobby can't find it in himself to be surprised. It seems like the boys spend more time hanging around his place than they do on the road these days.

Bobby cuts the engine and climbs out with a wince and a groan.

"Bobby!"

"Are you okay?"

"Where have you been?"

"What happened?"

"Are you hurt?"

Bobby growls at the boys and shoves by without a word. He's not up for conversation until he's taken his medicine.

If they've left him any, that is. They drink him out of house and home every time they stop by.

And they never clean up after themselves either.

-

"It was a _cop_ who shot you?"

Bobby pauses with the bottle of Maker's Mark halfway to his mouth. Sometimes he forgets that beneath all the anger and blood and guilt and pain, Sam Winchester still believes in good guys and bad guys and happy endings and sunsets, the whole nine yards.

Bobby tips the bottle toward him. "He was a fine, upstanding officer of the law."

Dean snorts with amusement. "Sure. They always are." He drums his fingers on the table for a moment. "Why didn't you call us for backup?"

Bobby gives him what he hopes is a withering glare. "Shit, boy. The day I can't handle the spirits drudged up by a good-for-nothing real estate developer playing at necromancy is the day I don't get out of bed."

Dean meets his glare evenly, unflinching. Sometimes Bobby forgets that even after thirty years on Earth and forty years in Hell, Dean Winchester is still believes there are folks out there who can tell the difference between heroes and villains.

Bobby stands up and sets the bottle down, doesn't bother capping it. It'll be gone by morning.

-

It's late enough now to be too damn early, but the boys are still awake downstairs. Through his closed bedroom door Bobby can hear the murmur of their voices rising and falling - but never shouting. It might be five in the morning, but talking is better than fighting and he won't hold it against them.

Bobby hasn't yet asked why they're here. He might ask in the morning. He might wait for them to tell him.

There's no way to get comfortable with a stitched-up hole in his shoulder. Next time he hears about a ghost rider haunting a shithole tourist trap, he's going to let the spirit trample anybody it likes.

He's getting too old for this shit.


End file.
